look upon me; i am the beast. (hornsandhooves) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-06-02 14:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !penny dreadful(s), *log, aaron kosminski, mina murray |
Who: Jack the Ripper Aron & Mina.
What: A meeting as planned for the relic he left behind.
Where: Penny dreadful door - Vauxhall Gardens.
When: At the agreed upon time. With much more to talk about, now.
Warnings/Rating: Mentions of gore.
i haunt the naked walls of this sad place.
a stomach empty as pockets with holes snarls, begs for bread and water like a dungeon’s first prisoner. He recalls the pour of yesternight’s sequins of mist on his indented brow and whores-blood clawing in his upturned hands, life-line, heart-line, head-line, the feel of intestines like thick, overgrown worms, and why? He did it to find clues of the soul. Would not the spirit’s residue hide inside the delicate shield of its body? He has a brimstone desire, like a gargoyle for proof of life, to find the very crude location of wherein may lie this elusive went, if anything leaves at all. And he scoured with the skill of a surgeon and the speed of a monster. Killing streets of a soot-eyed face of London already infested with grave-bugs of murder and mayhem. For London, another dead prostitute, it happens all the time, doesn't it?
it is because he has decided he slays those she knew only. Twas their fault she was taken from this dusty realm, their fault for showing her down the thorny path, and into the tangled, ashen bramble of the thorny briar of tuberose death. His sibling, a stomped-flower in whose confidant she now whispers to empty air. Her body never found, they will find all the bodies he will use in his search! The one he killed left there draped and displayed. A masterpiece!
Yet no location of a soul, and still this gnawing rat-thirst within him for more gore.
He’s an amalgamation now, the Gemini, integrated veins and ventricles. A dream in moonstone, a soaked pearl, mud cakes half his soul, the other half that redheaded boy from afar lands, only attempting to live, because that’s what people do. He hardly speaks, and when he does it is with the deceptive voice of an archangel and not the ooze of malevolence. He is calm.
WACCHIT, JACK! Jack, jack, the grave diggers words still ring.
How kindly of this woman to keep safeguard of his siblings handkerchief, as it is now the only thing of her that remains. She died in the only clothes she had. Her bed now a mausoleum for mice and the louse. He wears his finest clothes, which are far from fine, a beaten suit that’s weathered by work yet still functions as clothes. The mark of a common man. They are the all black clothes of his barber work, so as to keep the blood-letting stains invisible. He is a walking scent of sandalwood and smoke, cedar and pine. The fragrance of olde shaving cream, mustache wax, hair oil. He’s clean-shaven himself and his hair a coppery disarray pulled back by a black ribbon. Many people mill to and fro in this grand place, oft a look at him and an upturned snout… he ignores them.
He stares into the face of a few flowers, feeling utterly depersonalized, disassociated, drown in his mind. Impressive structures do nothing to appease him, but he does marvel. Wondering if he even remembers what the handkerchief looks like, and should he see it, would he feel any thing? He also conjures Ms. Mina’s visage, but so smeared with the rest of his pooling ink memories of late, it is but an inconsistent one.
He waits, arms behind his back, eyes shut against the burning wheel of the sun.